5 Months, 17 Days, 3 Hours and 42 Minutes
by Dezloratzki
Summary: Sherlock watches John sleep and thinks about how lucky he is and how perfect John is.


Sherlock Holmes found himself to be in a position of extreme luck. It was an abstract notion; Sherlock didn't believe in luck. But _god_ was he lucky. So incredibly lucky, so _unjustifiably_ lucky.

He was lucky because he cradled one John Hamish Watson in his long arms.

Eyes like ice roamed over roamed over a sun-kissed face, trying their damndest to commit every laugh line and eye crinkle to memory.

Sherlock shivered a bit –and _no_, not from the cold creeping in from outside their warm and perfect cocoon of the duvet and hot, hot limbs- and ran the tips of his fingers along John's straw jaw, covered in stubble.

John was so _beautiful_. Once again, Sherlock was irritated with himself for not realizing such an obvious fact sooner. How the hell had he not noticed the moment, the nanosecond in which they first met?

If he wasn't so horrifyingly stupid sometimes, they would have been like this damn near the beginning. Regardless of his stupidity, John loved him, and Sherlock was sickeningly grateful for these past five months, 17 days, three hours, and 42 minutes they had shared- mostly like this, wrapped up and twined in each other.

He grinned a bit at his… sentimental-ness and began running his fingers through John's graying golden blonde hair. It was getting longer than John usually allowed, the way Sherlock loved it, and Jesus Fuck, did it smell amazing. He ducked his head down and nuzzled John's ear, inhaling the scent of ivory soap and _John_ and _perfection_. Sherlock didn't know that was possible, to smell like perfection. But John had a lovely habit of proving Sherlock wrong and he did so now.

He was overcome, not-so-suddenly really, by the urge to see the deep, never-ending blue eyes he'd become addicted to in the past few years, longer if was being particularly analytical of his feelings.

Forcing John awake just so Sherlock could stare at his eyes seemed like a good way to get him into one his Pursed-Lips-And-Under-His-Breath-Complaints States, so Sherlock busied himself with studying every other aspect of John's precious body, the altar that Sherlock kneeled and worshipped on.

His large hands that fit so perfectly with Sherlock's. His deliciously muscular arms that always tightened around Sherlock when he was having a nightmare. And, oh god, those lips that made Sherlock melt on the inside every time they curved up into a smile. Those goddamn lips that Sherlock had no fear of claiming as his own, anytime, anywhere- In Sherlock's room, in the shower, in front of Lestrade, Anderson, Molly, Mycroft.

Neither man felt any shame for the love and desire they shared- not anymore, anyway.

And because Sherlock had not a single bit of self-control when it came to John, he ducked forward and pressed their mouths together. He easily shocked John's fantastic lower lip into his mouth.

John, for his part, though still mostly asleep, responded eagerly. He slipped his fever hot hands onto Sherlock's neck and pulled the taller man closer. Sherlock nearly exploded out of his skin when John threw his leg over his hip.

"Mornin', love," John mumbled as Sherlock kissed and nipped his way across John's jaw. He allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. "Di'you sleep at all las' night?" His eyes had yet too fully open and his voice was adorably thick with sleep.

"Sleep is irrelevant, dearest John," Sherlock breathed against John's clavicle. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

John laughed, a deep throaty sound, and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's messy hair. "You're always prattling on about how the digestive process slows down thinking. Right, well, so does exhaustion, you silly git."

Sherlock hummed in response and pressed his mouth back to John's. He supported his weight on his elbows and knees and when John tipped his bare hips up to meet Sherlock's, both men groaned and rutted together blush-worthy fervour.

"God, John, I love you," Sherlock managed to gasp out, when the two men broke apart for air. He pulled back a little, resting their foreheads together, to stare into John' beautiful eyes, the pupils blown wide, consuming the blue.

"I love you too Sherlock. So much," John tightened his legs around Sherlock's waist and pulled his boyfriends' –Jesus fuck, they were so much more than boyfriends, they were everything- naked body flush with his own.

Sherlock Holmes found himself to be in a position of extreme luck. It was a luck he didn't deserve, he knew, but God did he cherish it, revel in it. It was a luck he'd neglected and abandoned before; he would never, never do that again.

So after, as they laid entwined as tightly as possible, Sherlock was grinning. His lightening eyes were focused on John, who was staring and grinning back, just as intensely and goofily.

"You are everything, John."

"You've got it backwards."


End file.
